


You're the Judge (Set Me Free)

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aspiring Actor Dean, Castiel Loves Animals, Castiel and Animals, Criminal Castiel, Dean loves Swayze, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Holding Cell, Humor, Like Fanboy A Lot, M/M, Mary Winchester Feels, Officer Jody Mills, Plot Twists, Sarcastic Castiel, Sarcastic Dean, Sheriff John Winchester, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but not really, but who doesn't, like a lot, sorry - Freeform, well maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But you don’t wanna be Sheriff, do you?”</p><p>Dean looks back at the television screen, which is at a much lower volume to The Outsiders. “You do what you have to for the good of the people, I guess.”</p><p>“Okay, let me ask you this, then,” Cas says, “what would set you free?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're the Judge (Set Me Free)

**Author's Note:**

> I love Frontierland (6.18) to this day. This piece was mildly inspired by it.
> 
>  
> 
> Title inspired by the Twenty One Pilots song.

 

"Hands where I can see 'em, Pretty Boy!"

With arms raised above his head like a marshaller signaling the end of the runway without proper posts, Dean's body flies against the hood of the Cherokee. Cue the rusty groan of the handcuffs, and the cool metal straddles his wrists. It's almost enough to distract him from the Jeep's grill branding his crotch. It's better than the Charger, though.

Officer Mills turns to the expecting crowd with a triumphant smirk. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you take down a potential suspect."

There's a round of applause, followed by the slow disbursement of bundled bodies, and then Dean's being hoisted up. "Thanks for that, Jodes."

"Hey, I only host the seminars,” Jody attests. “Besides, I’ll take any opportunity to test out my new handcuffs."

"Kinky. But those aren't the new handcuffs."

"What do you-?"

Dean dangles the cuffs in his left hand and a paperclip in his right. "Gotta be better prepared, Jodes," he says, busting his trademark toothy side grin, "never know when you could have a real criminal on your hands."

"I'm still not convinced you're not one yourself, mister." She's clowning. Jody always clowns, even for her kids' birthday parties. (Unless it's his little brother Sam's. He's terrified. Which may or may not have been Dean’s fault after showing him _It,_ depending who’s asking.)

"As future Sheriff of Lawrence, I am personally offended."

"Future Sheriff my left _asscheek_ ," Jody scoffs, snatching her cuffs. "Every time I walk into your dad's office, I'm assaulted by the smell of takeout and Swayze crooning some B-Grade ballad—"

"Hey, Swayze always gets a pass!"

Jody adds little to no cheese on the sauce he gives her, just shoves him good-naturedly before heading down the corridor. “Stay out of trouble, you hear?” she beseeches, turning back. She grips her weapons belt. “Or next time, I’ll have my better handcuffs.”

“Aw, c’mon, Jodes,” Dean says, arms outspread, “I’m a joy to be around!”

***

A few minutes into the part in _Roadhouse_ where Swayze sports a muscle-made X on his bare, _sweat_ screened chest, another lucky visitor thanks the owner of his office for his unwavering hospitality.

"Get off it, Winchester!"

"Can it, Novak," Sheriff John S. Winchester growls, shoving the guy towards the nearest stall.

Novak snaps back quicker than a slap ruler, "That's perp to you. That's slang for—"

"I know what it means," John gripes, making _him_ sound like the one with a mile-long record.

Speaking of sounds, Novak sounds like he falls pretty hard on that topographical map of an ass he has on him. Dean wouldn't know. Swayze's still shirtless.

By the time Novak gets around to asking about his phone call, John’s already out the door. That’s the thing about his father that makes him a perfect Sheriff: He keeps a tight lip. Only speaks when he needs to. That’s not to say he has a filter. If he were a sink strainer, their sinks would always be clogged.

Plus, he’s tall with the body of a bear—just as scruffy around the face, too.

Oh, and white. And middle-aged. Apparently that’s a big plus on the resume.

"So," says Dean once the dialogue in the movie kicks in again, "what's up?"

Arguably offended by Dean's insouciance, Novak scoffs, "Well, for starters, I'm rotting in a jail cell; the ozone layer is burning to an invisible crisp as I speak, the economy is in shambles, and I forgot my sunglasses when I left the house this morning."

"Just trying to make conversation."

"Yeah, well, I'm not in a chatty mood. Not until a state attorney argues my defense as an act of exposing injustice towards the handling of swine."

Dean's eyebrows form a furry brown mountain on his forehead as his emerald eyes shift from the sixteen inch television on the table to the man behind bars. "You're Noah?"

There was this guy a month or two back connected to a string of crimes involving the local zoos, and even the insectariums, with three different accounts of breaking and entering and destruction of state property, but no one could ever catch him in the act. There’s no telling if this guy is the real guy or just a suspect.

Either way, the dude sounded like a lunatic, but seeing the guy they brought in up close, he doesn’t look like much of a threat to the quality of life (and obviously not to the _animals’_ ). He’s leaning against the wall, facing the window. He’s a few inches shorter than Dean’s six-foot, but carries decent-sized guns underneath a black top, and a jaw that could slice through any envelope without the stubble. His dark hair alone throws up (and is probably home to) a thousand birds. Pair that with the attitude, and you’ve got a natural born sociopath.

However, when he turns him, Dean can’t help but notice how sincere his blue eyes are. "I prefer Castiel."

Oh, well. Case cracked. Have Dean promoted immediately.

"Hmm."

" _Hmm_?" Castiel mocks. "No pre-based assumption? No witty riposte? You _are_ Dean, right? The Sheriff’s son? Aren't you the Crowned King of Crass Remarks?"

Dean shrugs, turning back to the TV. "Must be getting apathetic in my old age."

"What're you, like, seventeen?"

"Eighteen."

"Alright, spill," Castiel demands. "What is it?"

Dean turns back to Castiel, blinking back the remnants of Swayze. "Well… the more you think about it, why _shouldn’t_ pigs have the right to choose where they roll around in their own shit? I mean, look at you."

Castiel's lips blossom like fatty pink carnations. He shifts so his right hand, tanned palm down like a sunny side up egg, grips one of the metal bars to face Dean better. "We've got a lot to talk about, Dean."

***

Dean learns Castiel, or Cas, depending on the tone of their conversations, used to work at a local pet shelter. Growing up with a rescue whippet, two orange tabbies with a predilection for wet food, three guinea pigs, and a frequent hornet named Clarence, Cas’s dream has always been to extend his domestic touch to animals everywhere. So naturally it was a huge dream-crusher after finding out the _real_ sales tactic behind shelters.

He investigated no-kill shelters, but the charm wore off by then. Pet shops, the ones in malls that have dozens of people packed in one area to see the heavy-eyed hairballs in the window, were great for a while, until most of them got bought out by retail stores that sell fur made _out_ of such animals. Veterinary school was out of the question way before he earned a criminal slate. Financial aid would’ve only covered a few hundred, because, yes, he’s solely responsible for himself, but he also has a job at the Gas n’ Sip on Gains. It pays his apartment bill by a hair, but he doesn’t mind nuking taquitos. At least, he says, he has control over something.

He’s still applying for scholarships.

“I can’t picture you in a lab coat,” Dean muses. He offers the eggroll from his Teriyaki combo, which Cas accepts through the rusting bars with a shy—but nonetheless _proper—_ thanks. Dean allows their fingers brush for a moment. They’re nice hands. Soft for someone who uses them for breaking locks.

“Why, because orange is more my speed?” he jibes.

Dean chuckles, “You said it, not me.”

“But you _wanted_ to.”

“It would’ve made for a good, what do you call it? _Witty riposte?”_

Cas frowns against the eggroll. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Dean replies, rolling a lump of rice in his mouth in consideration before continuing, “I mean, it’s the truth, so what’s to apologize for?”

Dean tells Cas about the history of the family business, how he’s related to Samuel L. Colt, yes, _that_ Samuel L. Colt, the original _Walker, Texas Ranger_ from Sunrise, Wyoming, on his dad’s side. That bloodline got passed down to his grandpa, Henry, but with the last name Winchester, also after the gun, who was named Sheriff of Lawrence after he captured Abaddon, the town terror, while simply passing through. Then his son became the Big Bad Wolf and the rest his history in the works.

“But you don’t wanna be Sheriff, do you?”

Dean looks back at the television screen, which is at a much lower volume to _The Outsiders._ “You do what you have to for the good of the people, I guess.”

“Okay, let me ask you this, then,” Cas says, “what would set you free?”

Dean looks back at Cas, whose eyes are shining more brilliantly than light dancing on the ocean tide. That gives him a little more courage. He smiles. “Being an actor would be cool. Not an actor for those State Farm commercials or anything, a bonafide actor. Like Patrick Swayze.”

Dean turns away immediately after the thought escapes his lips. He’s never told anyone that. Cas probably thinks he’s an idiot.

However, it’s just the opposite.

“Well, you certainly have the face for it,” he says. Dean blushes. “ _Although_ …”

“What?”

Cas’s face twists in thought. “I can’t picture you as a ceramist.”

Dean’s face splits like a banana sundae from laughter.

***

“No _way.”_

Cas nods his head and points to the dribble from the last of his ice cream onto his shirt. “Just like that, too.”

Dean laughs disbelievingly, “ _You,_ Castiel Novak, the Animal Whisperer, killed your class hamster.”

“I was six!” Cas defends before slotting the small ceramic bowl and spoon Dean handed him through the bars. “How was I supposed to know hamsters couldn’t eat the _whole_ tomato?!”

“First of all, _I_ don’t even eat a whole tomato in a _year._ Two: No one eats the leafy part!”

“Hamsters eat leaves!” Cas pauses to let out a small, deflated _humph._   “Oh it was so traumatizing.”

Dean scoffs, shaking his head, “I’m sure.”

“I got dished what I cooked for Alfie a few years ago, though, when I met this guy, Bartholomew, on Grindr—”

Cas’s story is swallowed by a pair of clobbering footsteps. Dean snatches himself and the empty bowl from the ground and hurries back to his desk where _Ghost_ is playing on the Casio. Awkward. But not as awkward as the prying look John trades between Cas and Dean, knowing well enough he intruded on something, but trusts his son enough to put his doubts second.

“Looks like you’ll get to sail the high seas after all, Noah.”

“Oh goodie, a public drowning,” Cas states. “Sticking to tradition. Love it.”

Dean disguises his laugh as a sneeze into the crook of his elbow while John rolls his eyes. “For the love of—someone bailed you out, jackass.”

This has Cas scrambling into a standing position. “What? Who—?”

“Don’t know; don’t care,” John says flatly, “at least not enough to do the paperwork. Dean.” Dean stands up with the keys to the holding cells desk. He goes to Cas’s, turns the lock once the key’s inside, and just like that, after nearly 21 hours in custody, Cas stands next to Dean without vertical bars running through his skeleton. “Walk him out. Make sure he doesn’t steal anything. I’ve got a witness to interrogate on the Elkins case.”

“Steal?!” Cas rage-whispers as they near the door. “Is he senile? I _break_ things, why would I—?”

“Cas, just shut up, okay?”

Cas snaps his head to Dean, who’s pushing him a little faster, “What’s up with you? Why are you—?”

Before Cas can finish, Dean shoves him into the backseat of a Charger and slams the door. He chances a quick look around. When he sees the coast is clear, he sprints to the passenger’s side.

Soon, the car speeds off in a flurry of smoke going east, the sun sifting in and out of the windshield.

“Um, Dean, what the—?”

“Put these on,” Dean interjects, handing Cas a pair of sunglasses.

"Dean, this can get you on all _sorts_ of charges, aiding and abetting, kidnapping—"

Dean swivels to toss Cas a grin, "Since when did you become so concerned with being an upstanding citizen?"

"I have to agree with Noah on this one, Dean," Jody chimes from the driver's seat.

"It's Cas, okay? His name's Cas, and trust me, I know what I'm doing," Dean grunts. “Jody, you know what to tell my dad when he comes back?"

"The perp was moved to a different holding center after displaying aggressive behavior during transit.”

" _Aggressi_ —! Thanks for that."

Dean gives Cas a thumbs up from the front seat.

“So you’re Cas,” Jody comments, eyeing the twenty-something in the rearview mirror. It doesn’t take long for her eyeliner to push her hazel eyes from the puckish smile gracing her face. “You _are_ pretty hot. You know, for a criminal. Like Ted Bundy.”

Dean does _not_ blush at that remark.

“Yeah, except _I’m_ not the one throwing people into cars,” Cas points out, throwing on his shades for effect. “And I’m not convinced you aren’t going to kill me later.”

“Just sit back,” Dean says, “you have another eight minutes until we drop your carcass off at the nearest lake.”

***

“You weren’t kidding,” Cas remarks, staring down at the stretch of blue water beneath their feet.

Dean obviously didn’t plan on how well Cas’s eyes reflect Mary’s Lake. Or maybe the lake reflects Cas’s eyes. Either way, they’re standing on the bridge over the still water, which are the only bars that Cas should be gripping, ever. The birds flutter about in the yellow-green trees before double-dealing for the bright green tree behind them that towers over the east side of the lake like a guardian angel.

Dean watches a few bikers zoom up the gravel path underneath the jilted trees. “My mom was named after this lake.”

“Is that true?”

“I don't know. I just assumed, since this place is so beautiful.”

Cas’s lips curve into a smile for the first time since leaving skid marks in their wake. There’s a silence that passes easier than the wind through the bushes down below, then Cas asks, “Is that why we’re here?”

“Well that, and… _that._ ”

Dean cuts his thought short when he sees his thought springing onto the grassy shore. The bullfrog’s eyes dart back and forth before hopping away. A half a dozen more fling from the throes of the lake and plop onto the shore before scurrying away just as quick.

Dean turns to look at Cas, whose face is overflowing with enough happiness to break the seal on any money-back guaranteed Tupperware. “Dean, I…”

“It’s okay, I’m sorry for any future therapy you’ll need from here on out, I just wanted to—”

Cas surges forward, using the rail of the bridge to hold Dean in place, and kisses him. After a moment spent stunned, Dean returns the action, hand grabbling for the back of Cas’s head as he kisses him back, going as far as to nibble on the vanilla ice cream glued to his lower lip.

When they pull back, resting on each other’s forehead, and Cas whispers, “What would set you free, Dean?” Dean doesn’t hesitate answering:

“You.”


End file.
